


Is Heaven Just The Passing Clouds

by between



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Character Death, Coping, Dick And Wally Centric - Freeform, First He Dies Then Stuff Happens, Good Intentions, Hurt/Comfort, It's super tragic, Loss, Reconcilement, They're best friends, Very Scattered, bad choices, or are they, there's poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/between/pseuds/between
Summary: They say he's gone to heaven because if anyone deserves it, it's him. Up there in heaven, that's what they say. But if life is staying down here waiting, is heaven just the passing clouds?(One dies thinking he's just going to sleep and they're both at a loss. Things get better. It just takes some time.)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Wally West, Dick Grayson/Wally West
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Is Heaven Just The Passing Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first contest I ever entered, very, very happy to have made 1st Place. The subject was Angst, Young Justice. This is sad, but it does sort of have a good ending, if that's what you can call it.
> 
> Edit: This is late, but sweetsoupmates was so kind to make a little playlist for this and I want to share it with you all:
> 
> 1\. The other side- Conan Gray  
> 2\. I will follow you into the dark- death cab for a cutie  
> 3\. Someone somewhere somehow- super whatevr  
> 4\. This town- Niall Horan  
> 5\. Come home- ine onerepublic  
> 6\. The day I die- ISLAND  
> 7\. Just you and I (acoustic)- Tom Walker  
> 8\. Dancing on my own- Calumn Scott  
> 9\. Video games- Lana Del Ray  
> And of course  
> 10\. We'll meet again- Frank Sinatra

All of this was just so wrong. He couldn't think, couldn't remember how it had happened. But now he was here, in the middle of the hallway, right in front of that door. He vaguely registered that someone was holding him back. There were voices, familiar ones. He couldn't make out a word they said. All he knew was that his best friend was right behind that door and he needed to get to him. This was all his fault, he thought, all his fault. He was scared. It took some time for the ringing in his ears to fade.

"Calm down," someone said. He knew that voice. It sounded strange, sad but soothing. "Calm down. He'll be okay, come on." All tension seemed to leave him and he practically slumped into the other's arms. "Yeah, that's better." he said. "It's going to be alright."

He felt like nothing was going to be alright. Shouts were coming from behind the door and someone was crying. Was it him? He certainly felt like crying. Hopeless. He felt hopeless. Resting his head on the shoulder offered to him, he closed his eyes and relaxed into the safe embrace. They stayed like that for a minute, neither saying a word. He heard the door open and close again, then someone whispering something to another person.

"Is he going to die?"

The following silence was suffocating.

"Wally-"

"Don't."

There was nothing to be said.

He freed himself from his position and stood up. This time, no one stopped him as he went to open the door. His hands were shaking and his heart was beating loudly in his ears. The door closed behind him and looking at the bed against the far wall he suddenly froze. This wasn't the first time he entered a room in the med bay to find his best friend lying on one of the beds. He should almost be used to it by now, but this? This was different.

He wasn't the only one in the room besides the little bird, though. Bruce was sitting in the same spot Wally had seen him in so many times before. He was clutching his son's right hand in his own, just staring at the boy's face as if trying to burn it into his brain before-

Wally took a deep breath, the sterile air of the med bay filling his lungs. He willed his legs to take one step after the other, carefully inching closer to his friend. His hands found the metal railing on the end of the bed and he used it to steady himself before moving around to stand on the opposite side from Bruce and gently taking his friend's free hand. Bruce didn't even spare him a glance, just kept his eyes on the pale child between them.

Blue eyes weakly flickered open and quickly clenched shut again. Bruce immediately rose from his seat and leaned closer to his son.

"Shhh. It's okay, Dickie," he soothed, using one of his hands to run it through the boy's dark hair.

"Bruce?" Dick breathed and Wally could only think about how weak he sounded, how scared.

"I'm here," Bruce assured, forcing a smile.

Dick took a shaky breath. His eyes held tears and Wally had a hard time seeing his best friend like this. Dick was supposed to be the strong one, always had been. He had faced so much in his life already – how could this be the end?

"Bruce," he said again, voice barely audible. "I'm-" He gasped softly and blinked. "I'm scared," he whispered.

"I know," he replied.

Dick caught Wally's gaze and squeezed the hand that was still holding his. He would've missed it, had he not been giving Dick all of his attention.

"I don't-" Dick clenched his eyes shut, face contorting in pain for a moment. "I don't want to-" Tears were falling from his eyes, leaving shiny tracks on his pale skin. "Please," he gasped. "I don't want to die."

Wally's breath caught in his throat and his heart clenched so heart he felt like it was breaking. Bruce lifted his gaze to stare at him for a moment, before saying something that broke Wally's heart for real.

"You won't."

Dick's eyes widened, as did Wally's, and he could see the way they lit up with hope. False hope, Wally knew. He wished he didn't.

"R-really?"

Bruce nodded, expression controlled.

"Yes."

He didn't understand how easy it seemed for Bruce to lie to his own son. Didn't Dick deserve to know? Should he... should he say something? But of course they couldn't just tell a thirteen-year-old that he was going to die. The way that almost all fear had left his eyes when Bruce had told him he wasn't dying – it was proof of his trust in the man. They couldn't take it away. (But wasn't that what they were doing-)

"You'll be okay," Bruce said. "I promise."

And if Bruce told Dick he was going to be okay... then that's what he would believe.

Dick furrowed his brows in confusion and looked at them both.

"Then... why are you crying?"

He smiled at his little bird. Wally hadn't even realized he was crying and Bruce was wiping away the few tears Wally had only just noticed.

"Because we love you," Wally said and it had never been this hard.

It was true, it really was – there were no words to describe how much he loved him – but he felt like he didn't deserve his love for what they were doing. He had to keep telling himself that it was for the best. Dick squeezed their hands once more, though Wally thought it couldn't even be called a "squeeze" anymore. His best friend was fading.

"Love you, too," he whispered, eyes closing slowly. "I'm tired, Bruce."

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, his strong facade crumbling like it never had before.

"Sleep, Dick. We'll be there when you wake up again. You're okay now."

Bruce kissed his son's forehead and Dick smiled tiredly.

Something deep within him shattered, the moment Dick Grayson took his last breath on this earth and Wally did the first thing he could think of.

* * *

"Hey Dick? "

"What is it? "

"Do you ever... wonder what happens when- after you die? "

"I- well, yeah, I guess I've thought about it."

"And do you think there's something there? A place you go or something? "

"What, like heaven? "

Or hell.

"Uh, yeah. Like that. "

"I don't know. I... hope so. Hey, Wally?"

"Hm?"

"Promise if I go to that place you'll follow me some day?"

Wally laughed. It didn't shake the moment.

"Only if you do the same if I go first."

"Deal."

* * *

"Hey, Rob? Why have you never been on a date?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just- It's not like you've never been asked, right? So why did you never try?"

"Wally, seriously?"

"Yeah, come on."

A long sigh and an expectant face.

"Okay, well- I guess I wasn't looking for anything and... didn't want to disappoint anyone?"

"So no dates with strangers?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Okay good."

"Huh?"

* * *

"Right, so, Wally. Imagine I was dying-"

"What the- Dick, no?"

"Dick, yes. Anyway, so I'm dying and you can't stop it, we have one day to do anything we want-"

"Dick-"

"-what would you want to do?"

(Silence was hard, but words were harder sometimes. They failed you when you didn't think there was anything left to fail you.)

"I- I guess I'd like to just- just do what we always do? Like nothing was different. Make some last good memories together? Also, can we please change the subject, it's making me feel uncomfortable."

* * *

They were entirely drenched in water from the pouring rain.

"The weather is so depressing."

"It's just rain, Wally."

"If this was a movie there would be death."

A groan.

"That's so cliché."

"But can't you feel it?"

"What?"

"The _death._ "

"No. But I guess I'll feel death soon enough, Wally. In this business?"

"Don't talk like that." It was cold, but they didn't feel the rain. "We're inviting each other to our 100th birthday, remember?"

* * *

"How was the funeral?"

"Sad. And dull. My mom cried."

"Hm. Was there music?"

"Just some pianist playing those melodies you recognize but don't know the name of."

Their eyes didn't meet, instead facing in the same direction. (Never wanted to miss what the other sees again, never be alone again.)

"At my funeral I want someone to sing 'We'll meet again'."

"Don't tell me, I'll die first!"

"No way are you leaving me here!"

* * *

_I know exactly how you feel_

_Now that I've left this place_

_You're desperate, hurting, all alone_

_Around you, too much space_

_But fear not, I will wait for you_

_To reach your journey's end_

_I'll be there for you all the way_

_I'll take you by the hand_

_So don't give up, don't leave this place_

_Keep going, live and love_

_I miss you too, but I'm okay_

_I'll watch you from above_

* * *

Many believe that when you die, your consciousness simply fades from existence. You wouldn't feel a thing, wouldn't see, hear or think. You wouldn't be. Others, however, believe in God, in heaven. And there are so many other stories and beliefs, things people expect to see, experience, after or when they die. Does it hurt? Do you see your whole life flash before your very eyes when it is time to go? Will you still have your body afterwards? Will you meet an angel? Will you become one? So many questions and only one way to find out...

When Dick opened his eyes again, he did not expect to see the ceiling of his room. He remembered a fight, pain, someone calling his name. The pictures were blurry, the voices distorted and he couldn't make much sense of them. He wondered how he got home, into his soft bed. It was strangely still around him. Usually, in moments like this, when he woke up without recent memory, Bruce or Alfred wouldn't be far. They'd soon tell him what had happened. But looking around he found neither of them. The room was clean, the air warm. And still something felt so very off to him. Why was he here – alone?

Craving the presence of another person, Dick went to leave the bed, expecting to feel sore or weak. But to his surprise, he managed to easily stand on strong legs and could not feel a trace of physical pain. How long had he been out that he was fully healed? But that wouldn't make sense. Pain medication? Maybe that also explained why everything just seemed confusing and strange to him. Yet for some reason, deep down he knew that was not it. Taking a mental note to clear that up, he set off towards the hallway and to the left, down the stairs and into the living room. No one was there, but he could hear muffled voices from the kitchen.

He couldn't be sure, but he guessed they had to belong to Bruce and Alfred, as they were the only other living occupants of Wayne manor (if you didn't count the cave with its bats). But the closer he came to the kitchen, the more he was convinced that one of the voices definitely seemed female. He couldn't place it, though it sounded very distinctly familiar. Like he must have heard it at least once before, but only once and for some reason he remembered it. Now that he thought about it... the second, male voice sounded even more familiar. Actually, it sounded a lot like-

_Crash!_

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a plate hitting the white kitchen tiles. Porcelain shards were lying all over the floor and he couldn't help staring at them. Hadn't he broken a plate here just over a week ago? He had been younger then and Alfred had helped him clean- wait. Younger? But hadn't it been very recently? His thoughts were mixed up, didn't quite make sense and his sense of time felt far gone. (He was too far gone to save-)

"Oh dear, John, look."

He thought the woman had to be referring to the mess on the floor, until he lifted his gaze and realized they were both staring at him. And he knew those faces.

"Can... can we help you?"

Dick opened his mouth but no words came out. His brain wasn't even working well enough to bother closing it again. (Again. Still. _Talk_ -)

"Are you alright?" the woman asked, taking a tentative step towards him, concern evident in both her voice and expression.

He was dreaming.

He had to be. Or he was seeing ghosts and they didn't look like ghosts - not that he'd ever seen one. But either way, what he was seeing was impossible and impossibly realistic at the same time. _It couldn't be._

"But- But you're _dead_ ," he blurted and there were looks of melancholy on their faces.

"Sadly, of course," the woman agreed and her husband nodded gravely. "Oh my," she said then, a look of sympathetic horror on her face. "You must still be quite new. It does often come with confusion in the beginning..."

Dick had no idea what was happening but he was pretty certain that none of this was normal and none of this was right at all. _I must be dreaming,_ he told himself, over and over again in his clouded head. The woman was still talking and Dick tried to catch on to her words as much as he could. _Gather information. You can get out of this mess. Whatever it is._ (Never in his life- life? He'd never felt this way.)

"...never thought he would sell it. But here you are."

She finished with a warm smile and a questioning look on her face. Dick realized that the woman, as well as her husband, were staring at him expectantly. He had no clue what he was supposed to say. There hadn't been a question at the end of what she'd said, so he just nodded mutely. If he kept letting them talk...

"What is your name, my boy?" the man asked kindly.

An easy question at least. One of the things he knew for sure.

"Richard," he supplied. "Though I prefer Dick."

"It is nice to meet you, Dick. My name is John and this is-"

"Martha," he said, staring blankly at them. "You're John and Martha Wayne, aren't you?"

They seemed surprised for a second, but understanding was soon dawning on Martha's face. (Dawn, like the sunset. The sun felt closest when it was only just there. Just like-)

"Oh, you must have learned our names when you - or rather your parents, I'm guessing - bought the house from our son."

Dick frowned.

"Um, no. My parents died when I was eight. They basically only ever lived at the circus..."

John scratched his chin in thought.

"That is strange..."

"What is?" Dick asked.

"Your appearance, of course." John explained. "The ones I have met usually ended up in a place that represents their home..."

Dick hesitated, then carefully spoke.

"This... this _is_ my home. I live here. You- you don't because you are dead. It's just Alfred and Bruce and me."

He was getting frustrated with the situation really fast now. Where was Bruce and why was he _talking to his father's dead parents?_

Their eyes widened at the news and they shared a very obvious look.

"Did you say... Alfred and Bruce?"

"Yes," he said and suddenly remembered that they didn't know anything about what had happened after they had died. Of course. (Duh, are you dense, they're gone-) They were dead. _Then why am I talking to them?!_

"How are they? How... is our son?" Martha asked carefully.

How was he supposed to answer this? Say they were okay? Say they weren't? Because honestly, he didn't quite know half the time himself. Nothing was ever quite okay in their lives anymore, but they were still- _okay_. (Okay, but-)

"They're okay, I think. It's- complicated."

The parents nodded, seemingly satisfied for the moment.

"So you lived with them? Here?"

"Uh, yeah. Since my parents..."

They looked a little uncomfortable at these words, guilty almost. Guilty, why? Then suddenly something more important made him stop, rewind the last few seconds. _"lived_ ". (Past tense. Past. It was over. Over. Done.) What in the world was going on? Dick was almost sure he had to be dreaming - his problem with thinking straight and logical, as well as the entire situation suggested as much. (And _yet_. Yet? Yet!) Wasn't he still walking, talking, thinking?

"'Lived'," he repeated, his voice a strange monotone, like he had forgotten how to work it. "You- you said, lived-"

"I am sorry, Richard-"

"It's Dick," he corrected automatically, Martha's words not making any sense in his head. Her face softened, a fragment of the pained expression falling away and a sad smile gracing her lips instead.

"Dick," she said, gently taking his hands. (Shaking, he was shaking, shivering- why was the world so freezing cold-) "Come, dear," Martha glanced at her husband as she lead Dick out of the kitchen. "We will explain everything, don't worry."

* * *

The muddy ground beneath his feet made him feel like any second he would sink in. He wouldn't mind it, if he was being honest. The grey headstone wasn't moving and it wasn't making any noise and it wasn't living. Why then, why was it wearing his best friend's name like it didn't already belong to someone. They had stolen the name right out of his hands and placed it on a grave like he didn't need it anymore, like it was supposed to stay here now.

But Wally wouldn't have any of it.

Everyone else had already left, even Bruce. He hadn't been able to stand the view of his own son's grave. (Grave? Death? What? Dick was his best friend, Dick was alive and Wally still had so much to say-) His hands curled to tight fists at his sides, the white rose in his left crushed indirectly by the emotions cursing through him like a river, pulling him under and threatening to drown him. (-but no. He was lying to himself.)

There was a silence hanging over the entire place. It was peaceful. The sky was a dim grey and the wind a light breeze, carrying the passing clouds. (Carry him away, please, make it stop-) Wally just asked himself why no one was screaming at Dick to wake up yet. Why was no one screaming his name because it had been stolen?

So that's what he did. He didn't know for how long he sat on his best friend's grave, hitting that damned stone until his hands were scraped and bloody, screaming and demanding a name that didn't belong there. Those letters didn't belong on that cold, hard surface and he could not, would not believe his friend was gone just like that. (No way- he couldn't leave him here.) He was determined to fight, but the strength soon left him. Hanging off the edge of the gravestone with one arm and his forehead leaning against the front, right where his name was etched into the granite. Wally closed his eyes and breathed shakily, face marred by the glistening trails of tears.

He was quiet when he started singing, his words interrupted by hiccupping sobs all the while through, but he couldn't bring himself to care what it might sound like.

"We'll meet again... d-don't know where-" His heart felt like it had been imbedded with thousands and thousands of shards of ice. He was freezing on the inside, burning on the outside and feeling numbness besides the pain all over. "-don't know..." No one should ever have it feel this way. "...when... But I know we'll-" His body was shaking, shivering. There was nothing left to do. "-meet again-" His voice broke along with the rest of him and the clouds up ahead were still passing as though nothing had happened.

* * *

_But I know we'll meet again some sunny day_  
_Keep smiling through,_  
_Just like you always do_  
_Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away_

_So will you please say "Hello"_  
_To the folks that I know_  
_Tell them I won't be long_  
_They'll be happy to know_  
_That as you saw me go_  
_I was singing this song_

_We'll meet again,_  
_Don't know where,_  
_Don't know when_  
_But I know we'll meet again some sunny day_

* * *

It was a sunny day-

"Hi, I'm Kid Flash, but my name's Wally! You're Robin, I know that, of course – I'm your biggest fan! I think your costume looks really cool, by the way! I wanted to have a cape too, just like you, but Uncle Barry said it's not good for running. He also says I talk a lot and sometimes I get really fast so I hope I'm not too annoying and we'll become best friends!"

The small twitch on the other's lips send his heart alight with happiness.

* * *

"Okay, okay, but who's gonna be your valentine?"

There was a smile gracing those lips and a voice kept shouting in his head, over and over. (Best friends, remember?)

"I don't know."

"No, as if! Are you going to ask Artemis?"

"Just drop it."

"Wally, come on, I want to know."

"I'm not asking anyone to be my valentine because I don't like anyone that way so _why bother_."

(Except, maybe-)

* * *

"My last words are either going to be 'Oh no,' or 'What the _fuck_ , Dick?"

"Mine will either be 'You're next,' or 'Screw you, Wally,'."

"And your tombstone will say 'Here lies Richard John 'Too-Good-For-Y'all' Grayson – Gone but still stalking your ass from the shadows and creeping you out with his mad cackle'."

"Which will fit perfectly next to 'Here rests Wallace Rudolph 'It's _Kid Flash_ ' West – A great science geek, beloved smart-ass and forever our dearest sidekick'."

Laughter masked the annoyed groan. The moment should just hold on forever. (But forever is a long time and mortality a ruthless thief.)

* * *

The ground had opened up and had swallowed him whole. A scream was tearing at his heart long after the sound had reached his ears. (There was an echo inside his head, ricocheting off the walls of his skull, vibrating, shaking-)

There was pain, in his eyes and heart and mind and he became the pain and no one held him so he held himself. (It's just this moment- Everything will be back to normal in no time- no time, no time, he didn't have any _time_ -)

The wind was rushing in his ears (-or maybe it was his blood, heart pumping fast, faster, too fast-) as he ran and ran and ran.

And he _just ran_.

* * *

Time worked differently when you didn't have to worry about it, Dick learned. He himself worked differently. Whatever he had expected the afterlife to be, this wasn't it. No one could tell him much about the place, no one had met any otherworldly deity that told them this was heaven or hell, no one knew if this was their last stop or if there was more to come yet. What bothered him most however, was the fact he had no way to see what was going on whit the living. (Living, because he wasn't one of them anymore-)

He spent his days distracting himself of his thoughts by doing trivial things such as reading or helping around the house, cleaning, cooking, baking. If Martha and John noticed his slow decent into frustration, they didn't say anything. The couple had tried asking him a few personal questions at first, about his relationship with Bruce, his interests, friends, but had soon gotten the hint and ceased their efforts. Talking about his friends and family wasn't exactly helping him right now. Sometimes there were still parts of his memories that he couldn't get access to. He didn't remember how he died, he didn't remember what he had been doing, though he would take a wild guess and say he had been on a mission or patrol. Something about his last moments didn't feel right, even though he couldn't recall what had happened during the time. It was as though his mind was trying to protect him from a truth he wasn't ready to face. (He was standing in front of a door and could not remember where he had hidden the key.)

Dick had died, he was dead and he had stopped living. The feeling of betrayal snaking around his heart and squeezing made him feel nauseous. Every time Dick woke up in the morning from yet another dreamless sleep, a deep spike of disappointment shot trough him. No one was there when he woke up. (Someone should be here, they promised, didn't they?) Every time Dick woke up he forgot what had happened. Every time Dick woke up, he remembered a voice saying he wasn't going to die. Then he remembered he was dead and the voice faded into the back of his mind for him to discover again at another time. (The blank space in his mind couldn't be filled with hope.)

He didn't try looking for his parents. They had told him that you would see your loved ones again if they died, in heaven. This wasn't heaven to Dick. (It was beginning to turn into hell-) He didn't miss them more than Bruce, Alfred or his friends at the moment and so there was nothing he could do to alleviate the pressure that was weighing him down with every step he took. Despite everything, Dick thought this was exactly what being dead really felt like. Maybe heaven was a state you only reached once you let go of everything you lost after dying. Dick didn't understand how Martha and John had managed.

Their cheery smiles only pushed him deeper and he wished he could bury the image of a grieving Bruce mourning the loss of these two next to their happiness without him by their side. Being happy without Bruce or Wally or the others was a thought that hurt within every part of him. It was something he didn't deserve when he had left them to go on without him. It hurt as much to imagine Wally on his 100th birthday without Dick, Bruce fighting the Joker all while the latter threw nasty reminders of the lack of a partner at his side, Alfred cleaning his room the way he cleaned all the other useless and empty rooms in the manor, making sure nothing ever changed - just like Martha and John's room. (A space frozen in time in favour of keeping a dusty memory.)

Or the thought of him being replaced in any way, which was easily the most agonizing one.

Quietly humming a familiar melody that distinctly reminded him of a graveyard for some reason, Dick took a walk through the garden of Wayne manor, taking in the flowers and paths long since ingrained in his mind. Nothing here felt like home. He was a visitor, only there was no way to leave – his visit was eternal. Deciding to sit he made himself comfortable on his favourite bench, which lacked the "Wally and Dick" they had carved into the left armrest with a birdarang that one time. Alfred had been so mad; Bruce had not been good enough at hiding his grin to get out of it either. (How much he longed for Alfred to even be mad at him just to have someone-)

The lyrics of the song still ringing in his head (- _some sunny day_ -) he made his way back inside to retrieve a knife from somewhere. He had to fix the bench – for when they met again. For some reason, he had a feeling he would finally understand then.

* * *

"Not everyone comes here, Dick."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, either that, or time works a lot different. People who should long be dead are not always around here. My parents aren't here and they died before I did, you see what I mean?"

Martha was trying to be gentle, but Dick felt like he had been slapped.

"You're saying I might never see them again."

It was a statement, not a question.

They both knew the answer anyway.

* * *

It's easy to forget the fragility of life.

Imagine a glass jar - one wrong step and it might shatter at your feet, the broken pieces cutting into everything around you, scattered so wide that putting them back together becomes entirely impossible.

Its contents free to fall apart, leaving behind the empty corpse of a thousand memories.

What used to be visible through the glass turns to smoke, burning your eyes and choking your lungs.

It takes more strength than life to withhold death.

And every breath stings from the shards.

* * *

They say he's gone to heaven because if anyone deserves it, it's him. Up there in heaven, that's what they say. But if life is staying down here waiting, is heaven just the passing clouds? Wally had a feeling that the waiting would soon come to an end and all he could think about was Dick and two very important promises he had made. He wasn't afraid of dying. Wally only feared what being dead was like - where, when, how and if he would exist. (Who he would see- who he would see _again_.)

And yet, with 20 years old, Wally was at peace leaving this world and sacrificing himself for the sake of everyone else. Spending his last seconds running seemed the right thing to do and the sensation of the speed force clinging to him only to gradually slip away felt like caring hands lying him down on a soft bed in the sky. Wally smiled as he drifted away on the passing clouds.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

"Composing my will, _duh_."

"Dick?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are you writing your will?"

"Why do people have a will, Wally, _hm_? Oh, _I don't know_ , maybe to make sure everything still goes according to plan after they die."

"I know, but why are _you_?"

"Obviously, so all of you can still be bothered by what I want even after I'm gone."

* * *

"No, Wally, don't-"

A crashing sound rang through the air.

"...sorry."

"Wally, I swear, you're gonna be the death of me."

* * *

"If you die, I will kill you-"

"But Wally, that makes no sense, you see-"

"Well then don't die!"

"I can't exactly promise you not to die."

"Alright, so, if you get hurt at all, I will make sure you wish I had killed you instead. _Got it_?"

* * *

When Dick woke up, it was just the same as always. Except suddenly it wasn't as he remembered what he remembered every morning and _didn't_ forget. He'd never had the time to think about it, but this time was different. His memory provided him with a promise that was nothing but the remains of a painful lie and he was so, so angry. (Anger, hurt, sadness, all coming to take him, to crush him, to break what has already been broken-) His eyes were wide open, yet unseeing as he held his head in his hands, trying to figure out if this had happened. (But it had and he couldn't understand-) The words were repeating themselves inside his head, as though now that they were free they had to make up for lost time. A single moment was burning itself into his mind in a way that was so intense that it took away his breath.

Dick felt the same as when he'd first come here (-when he had _just died_ -) and he hated it. Everything was scattered and nothing made sense. He lost track of time, memory and thought.

Everything was a _mess_.

Scraping together what willpower he had left, Dick took a deep breath and climbed out of the sheets he had been tangled in. Stumbling over to the window and opening it, he gasped at the gust of fresh air that met his face. Death had managed to mess him up a second time now and it wasn't fair that he couldn't even have his peace after dying. Nothing was right about this and if anyone ever dared calling this place heaven again, Dick would give them hell.

By the time he could think again, his anger had tripled. He knew, he understood why he had never been able to fit into this place, understood why he couldn't come to terms with being dead. (He never wanted this.) An inner compass directed him down to the entrance hall and he stopped in front of the door just as the doorbell rang.

* * *

Wally couldn't think of a time in his life – life? – in which his mind had ever been clearer or his heart lighter. The moment lasted for about ten seconds, until the familiar door in front if him opened and the wrong dark-haired boy stood in front of him. (He was the only right one, but this was all wrong-)

His breath stopped and his heart clenched. (Shouldn't his heart have stopped anyway?) A million thoughts were rushing through his head, a million questions that yearned to be answered. He had to say something.

"Dick," he said, a choked remnant of anything he had imgined to say were he given the chance.

Dick didn't respond, instead taking a dazed step backwards, eyes wide and face pale enough for Wally to remember he was dead. (Dead- he was dead, too-) Wally stayed where he was, only reaching out a hand to follow Dick's movement. The action caused them both to freeze up and for a moment they were nothing but statues too far apart to touch but far too close to stand still.

"You lied," Dick whispered after a long, tense silence.

Wally didn't understand. (Where did the clarity disappear to?) He hadn't said anything yet, besides his friend's name. Blue eyes were glistening with unshed tears and Wally was reminded of a moment in his life he had wanted to forget. The meaning of Dick's accusation hit him full force.

Dick had died and they hadn't kept their promise.

"You have no idea," Dick breathed, his face the definition of hurt and Wally couldn't breathe. (He didn't deserve to. But he was already dead-) "You shouldn't even be here! You weren't here when I thought you would be and you don't get to be here now!"

Wally opened his mouth, to say what, he didn't know, but before he could say anything the front door slammed shut and he was left alone once more. The strange sense of clarity returned as he had a moment to work through what had just happened. Most of it seemed rather logical to him. He knew he was dead. There wasn't the slightest flicker of doubt inside him. Dick had died five years ago and they had met again in heaven. (Heaven? Something told him Dick didn't like that word-) And Wally didn't know what to do.

* * *

"Dick, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell Barbara about the mission, but it just slipped and-"

"Well, maybe you should have thought before you opened your mouth!"

"But nothing happened, anyway, right? Everything's fine!"

" _I'_ m not fine, Wally, alright? Because you betrayed my trust, don't you get it?"

"I didn't mean to-"

"You're my best friend, Wally. That's why I'm so angry."

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"What if she never talks to me again?"

"Maybe you should just apologize."

"But I didn't do anything wrong!"

"That's what you think, but if she sees it differently then it doesn't matter. You should have realized it before."

"But what if she won't accept my apology?"

* * *

"He wanted me to tell you, he loved you."

(And that he's sorry. He's sorry, but he doesn't regret-)

"No."

"I'm sorry."

Someone else should have said this, someone else should have been there.

* * *

When Dick came to sit on the bench, Wally was waiting for him, using a finger to trace the markings Dick had tried to imitate with a kitchen knife. The lack of scolding he had received had taken away its meaning and made him feel emptier afterwards.

They sat next to each other for a while, not touching, not looking at each other. Just sitting and facing the same direction.

"You shouldn't be here," Dick said again, straining to keep his voice level, despite the raging emotions inside.

"I didn't come here on purpose."

"No, you did. It's right that you're here." Dick corrected. "You're just early." He felt Wally's gaze on him. "Or, late, I suppose," he added and with it the weight of the conversation on both of them.

"I wouldn't have been able to invite you to my 100th birthday anyway. Twenty seems alright."

Dick still didn't dare reciprocate the stare and fixed his eyes on a specific tree in front of him. A soft noise emitted from his right, where Wally's tracing had turned into scratching - an old habit, Dick remembered. He didn't like what it meant that he did.

"You don't know what you did," he accused, tossing the conversation right over the edge and plunging the pair into a tense atmosphere that threatened to drown them if they didn't work together. Wally's silence implied that he knew where Dick was headed. "There was always something wrong with me since-"

"I'm sorry," Wally said, but his voice was far too calm and clear for him to _get it._ If he did, he would feel something, he would be begging for forgiveness, he would be horrified by what he had done.

Dick didn't understand.

(Why was he the only one in pain?)

"No," Dick pressed, frustration a tight grip on him. "No, you have to understand, this is your fault," The sun was too bright. (Why was it a sunny day-) "I never accepted death, I never even realized why I felt so- so-"

"...dead?"

" _No_."

And this time Dick did look at Wally, his steely gaze faltering only for the fraction of a second as it met gentle eyes. "You lied to me and I could never understand why this," Dick spred his arms to gesture at everything around them. "Was so wrong when it should have been so right."

Dick's arms dropped to his sides after a moment of silence. Wally wasn't saying anything, but Dick thought he saw tears in his friend's eyes. (Was he still his friend or had he grown to live without him?)

Dick suddenly found himself surrounded by strong arms, pressed against a warm chest, the scent he breathed in more familiar than the strange warped reality that was constantly struggling to replicate and to copy. Had he not finally realized, with a clarity he hadn't known existed, that he was dead, Dick could have imagined he was back there - back home.

Too much time had passed in nothing more than an empty blur and there was so much distance between them. (Close, so close-)

Dick cried and Wally held him and they were here, together and Dick was angry but he would forgive.

"You're my best friend, always were and always will be," Wally murmured and tightened his grip. "I get why you're so upset. I just wanted to protect you."

* * *

Two souls, a thousand miles apart, a reality stretched in between and a bond that was stronger.

They were waiting, together, again, and it was like someone had put the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle into place and it had become whole and shifted into a different picture.

Nothing would ever be the same, nothing would ever turn back time. (Time worked differently here.) But they was a clarity around them that made even the oldest carvings glow in the gentle light of a sunny day, mindless of the passing clouds.

* * *

A beat and a beat and a beat and silence and a pain that no one can ever describe. There are no rules for this and there's no right way to deal. There's only to deal. To deal with it or break and fall and splinter into a million tiny pieces, never to be set back together in its entirety, always something missing. And it's death and it's more and it's more or less, also less - more so than the life that was before.

A beat and a touch and a whisper and a wreck of emotions, a pile of dented memories and faded promises that taint the stream of time beyond their reach. Life feels shorter than a moment, cutting out only the relevant parts that shouldn't be relevant at all because they're so obviously taken for granted and not without reason as it seems - until it's death and it's nothing less than the end and more of a beginning of a life less than more.

A beat.

It doesn't take long.

And a beat.

More than a never.

And a beat.

Less than always.

And a last beat.

And nothing ever was.

* * *

_If life is just the beating of a heart, is heaven just the fleeting thoughts?_


End file.
